Pieces of You
by Irena K
Summary: The Island 2005: Life would be so much easier for Jordan 2 Delta if she weren't constantly reminded that it's not her life. Originally written for Yuletide 2010.


Disclaimer: They belong to Michael Bay and Dreamworks.

Feedback: is a girl's best friend. Constructive criticism is, as always, actively encouraged.

Notes: Originally written for Yuletide 2010. _Finally_ cleaned up and archived every which where.

Rating: PG, for mild sexual implications

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PIECES OF YOU

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Jordan sees Jones on the satellite feed. Some talk show hosted by a woman with a too-wide smile and a bad dye job.

The suit doesn't really fit him, looking rumpled and over-used. A bit like Jones himself, now that she thinks about it. Next to him is his identical twin, or at least the man who could pass for his twin. This, the text box at the bottom of the screen informs her, is Stanley Jones, age 53, the donor.

"So, some of the former clients of Merrick Biotech are suing for custody of their clones," the host says, smiling her weird shark smile.

"Gosh, that-that's terrible," Jones says, breathy and horrified.

"But you're not one of them." This to Stanley. He shakes his head.

"Can't understand those people." His voice has a twang Jones' lacks, but otherwise the mannerisms are all the same. "I mean, here a person goes through their whole life, looking for someone who understands them perfectly, who gets exactly what they're thinking, and when they find that someone, they want to get rid of them?" He shakes his head again. "Terrible business, just terrible."

"So, what's next for you two, for Jones and Jones?"

"Jones and Jones. I like that."

"Oh, yes, me, too."

The host's smile turns indulgent, calculated for a perfect mixture of fondness and condescension. "We'd love to hear your plans."

"Well, Mandy, we're thinking about writing a book."

Jordan turns the television off, but doesn't move until Lincoln coaxes her to the deck for lunch. Even then, she is reserved. When Lincoln asks her if anything is wrong, she lies and says nothing.

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She lacks Lincoln's innate knowledge of the operation of the _Renovatio_ and though she is slowly learning how to handle it, she spends most of her days reading. They only had limited supplies back

_home, her traitorous mind still insists_

at the institute and she's painfully aware of just how much her knowledge of the world was curtailed, now that she's out in it. So every time they drop anchor off the coastline, she is taking their little inflatable tender to land and buying every book she can get her hands on. Fiction, non-fiction, historical, topical, whatever's available. Some resorts have enormous stores with computerized kiosks to provide personalized recommendations, no need to ever speak to an actual human being. Others are little nooks tucked away on back streets, specializing in local authors and manned by men and women with more enthusiasm than business acumen.

She loves them all, loves trailing her fingers along the spines of books old and new, tracing each letter as if she could memorize them by touch alone. Sometimes she finds something to her fancy right away, other times she stays for hours, until the shop closes and she is stumbling happily back to the tender, arms full of her new treasures.

When they arrive in San Francisco, she kisses Lincoln goodbye for the day – and how freeing it is, to touch him as much as she wants to, without a guard looming ever-present behind them – and proceeds on her regular pilgrimage. The shop she finds is full of antique books, smelling of must and old leather. She pauses by a collection of novels by the Brontë sisters, worn but well-loved. A piece of fake childhood memory suggests her father used to read _Jane Eyre_ to her, but she has not, she realizes, ever actually read the book herself. She takes it to the register.

The woman behind the counter, on the young side of middle-aged and full of quiet cheer, rings her up. Only... only she keeps _peering_, studying her so intently that Jordan glances back, to see if the woman is perhaps looking at someone behind her.

The woman notices and smiles sheepishly. "Sorry. It's just – you look so much like that supermodel. What's her name, you know?" The woman chuckles and flaps her hand at Jordan. "I'm sorry, you must get that all the time. The resemblance is..."

She trails off, perhaps noticing the way Jordan's smile has become forced. Or, worse, remembering about all those news stories recently. The ones about the rich folks and their clones.

"Thanks for the book," Jordan manages to choke out, before not-quite-fleeing back to the boat.

She tells Lincoln she isn't hungry that night and goes to bed early. When he comes in later, she pretends to be asleep.

Her dreams are haunted by vague afterimages of a small boy that shares her curly blonde hair and green eyes.

His smile belongs to a man she has never met.

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She spends the next few days jittery and irritable. She can't concentrate on reading, everything Lincoln teaches her about the _Renovatio_ is forgotten minutes later, and staying below deck feels claustrophobic. She wants to run or fight or _something_, just so long as she isn't stuck on a damn boat anymore and can feel actual land beneath her feet.

She finds Lincoln in front of the television in the saloon, watching as the news starts in again. "And finally, the class action suit brought against Merrick Biotech has gone before a federal judge, where-"

She grabs the remote and with a vicious jab, shuts it off.

"Hey!" Lincoln says. "I was watching that."

"I'm sick of hearing about it, okay? 'Oh no! Clones! Ooooh, scary!'" She waggles her hands above her head in exaggerated terror. "It's never anything different and I don't see why we have to stay glued to the TV every second of the day just to hear the exact same thing over and over again."

"Okay, stop. What is going on with you?"

"Nothing. There is absolutely nothing going on with me." She throws herself back onto the couch, aware that she sounds petulant and that this is a line of argument unlikely to dissuade Lincoln. She's right.

"That's a lie. You've been tetchy for days now."

Tetchy. That's one of Tom's words and she visibly winces. "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Be _him_. Out there, okay, fine, we need the cover, but in here, don't be him. Don't be-" She doesn't finish _someone you're not_. Because, well, that isn't true, is it? She wraps her arms around herself, trying to stave off a sudden chill.

"Hey. Hey." He slides next to her, his arm slipping around her shoulders and pulling her against him. She tucks her face into his chest, breaths in his scent. "I-I'm not, okay? I won't try to be. I'm still me."

He sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as her, but she doesn't call him on it. She can't, not when he's all she has, when they are all they can rely on. Instead, she clutches him closer.

"Let's go somewhere else. I'm sick of this place."

"Alright. Where we would we go?"

"I don't know." She thinks for a moment. "Alaska."

He chuckles, but when she glares at him, he sobers. "What, seriously?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

"Because it's Alaska! It's -" He struggles for a word and settles on, "Cold. Really, really cold."

She raises an eyebrow. "That's the point. It's different."

"Yeah, but -" Her other eyebrow joins the first, widening her eyes. She even sticks her lower lip out a little. He sighs. "Alaska?"

"Alaska."

He rubs a hand down his face. "Alright. Give me a day or two to chart a decent course and we can stock up."

She grins and tackles him with a hug, startling him into a laugh. She loves that sound and it's almost enough to make her forget that it's Tom's abilities that will get them out of here, not Lincoln's.

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They decide to follow the coastline. There's no rush and it will give them a chance to see Canada along the way. Some allowances are made to weather and tide, but it's the high season and their voyage should be long, if uneventful.

Lincoln takes great delight in teaching her how to steer, explaining all the gears in detail and standing behind her as she takes mans the console. His hands slide over hers, two puzzle pieces fitting together as they were always meant to. Days are dreamy and relaxing.

Nights are mostly the same. Only sometimes Lincoln has nightmares, the sheets yanked away from her and twisted up in his fists as he mumbles things she can't understand.

In the mornings after those violent dreams, he'll greet her in Tom's Scottish brogue. It doesn't last long and his accent always slips back to the one she knows. He doesn't notice it and Jordan becomes very good at pretending it never happens.

Maybe she and her donor share a talent for acting after all.

"The spiny dogfish."

"It is not called that."

"It is. It so is." She continues to read from the article on her laptop, using her finger to scroll through the touch-screen while adeptly dodging Lincoln's attempts to take it from her. "Of the family s_qualidae_ in the order s_qualiformes_. It has two spines and white spots on its back. Oooh, a spotted shark. That's so cute!"

"It's a shark. They aren't supposed to be cute." He is now stalking her as she balances along the back of the couch, following her with an intensity not unlike the sharks he's mocking.

"Would I make up a word like _squaliformes_? Or _aplacental viviparity_, for that matter?"

"What's aplacental whatever?"

"Well, apparently when a Mommy Shark and a Daddy Shark love each other very much-"

He finally gives up on snatching the laptop and settles for dragging her down on top of him on the sofa. Or rather, that's the plan, but he overbalances and sends them both crashing to the floor. They drag the remote down with them and a stray elbow sets the TV on to _Top of the Pops_. Jordan tries to maintain her irritation, but Lincoln's expression of embarrassed pain just starts her giggling.

"Glad you find my suffering amusing," he says. He tries to look stern but only comes across as ridiculous and that sets Jordan off again.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She attempts to bring herself under control and succeeds. Mostly. She can feel the ridiculous grin on her face still. "Really, 6 Echo. You should be more careful."

"Is that so, 2 Delta?"

"Absolutely. You never know if you'll hurt yourself." She dwells on their position momentarily, her grin turning wicked. "Or if you'll find yourself abruptly trapped by wanton _femme fatale_." She just learned that term and is determined to use it as much as possible. If she had the choice of growing up to be something, a _femme fatale_ would definitely be it.

Lincoln clearly has no idea what she's talking about, but appears game. "Really. And what might one of these _femme fatales_ do to me?"

Jordan slides her legs down around his waist, trapping him between her thighs. His breath hitches and her smile grows. "Why, she'd be forced to have her way with you, 6 Echo."

"Care to demonstrate how that works, 2 Delta?"

Yes, she would and yes, she does. They kiss slow and deep, backed up now by a little more experience and a lot more understanding than when they were first starting out. The laptop is set aside as she slips one hand to the back of his neck, the other lightly gripping his hair. He pulls up her shirt to rest against her bare skin, hands remaining idle for now, but promising further exploration soon.

She loves this part, before they join themselves, just reveling in the touch and feel of him. Before they

_ran away_

escaped, their contact had been fleeting. The unknown had been compelling, but doomed to nothing more than brief, unfulfilled promises. Now, as if to make up for the years of lost time, their bodies always respond to each other, giving her practically electric jolts of pleasure and happiness and feelings she can barely comprehend, let alone name. Every time, she wants more and every time, he is more than willing to oblige.

His breath is picking up and she can feel that familiar warmth starting in her core as his hands drift up, thumbs grazing the underside of her breasts. She hums happily into his mouth, not even bothered anymore by the sound of the television. Forget the bed, maybe they should just ravish each other right here on the floor. Characters in books do it all the time.

She is about to suggest this, when-

"Breaking news on Merrick Biotech. The company has officially filed for Chapter 11, while in the midst of one of the biggest lawsuits this country has seen in decades. As viewers may recall, Merrick fell out of high-end scientific circles and into the public eye when its illegal cloning operation-"

Lincoln turns it off, but the moment is gone. She lays her head on his chest and he holds her close and neither of them speak for a very long time.

Bernard Merrick may be dead, but his legacy still follows them, determined as any ghost.

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Vancouver is lovely both along the coast and further inland. They moor and depart for shore, using Tom Lincoln's credit cards and Tom Lincoln's money to book themselves a suite at one of the high-end hotels. A holiday of sorts, taking a break from their travels.

They walk through the Biodel Conservatory, taking delight in both the floral displays and aviary. As they rest against one of the walkway railings, a red macaw lands on a branch next to Lincoln and proceeds to pick irritably at his jacket. As Lincoln stares at the bird with something resembling frozen terror, Jordan controls her laughter long enough to get a handler. The man encourages the macaw onto his arm and up to his shoulder, ignoring Lincoln's further horror at allowing a bird that big with a beak that sharp such close proximity to his face.

"Who's a good girl?" the handler coos as he walks away, the macaw answering back, "Josie's good. Josie's a good girl."

"Do you ever think everyone out here is even crazier than they were back at the Institute?" Lincoln asks.

She tweaks his nose. "You're just upset a woman didn't fall for your charms."

"There's a hole in my jacket," he grumbles, but now that the parrot is no longer a threat, he brightens up considerably.

They go to the art gallery and museum of anthropology and Lincoln drags her to the maritime museum, which she complains about almost the entire way there, but is surprisingly fun. They follow a group of children onto the _St. Roch_, a living antique of a ship, and spend the next hour or so climbing over rigging, playing ship's pirates with a pair of ten-year-old twins and their bemused parents and generally having a grand time.

Afterward, they start the long, leisurely walk back to their hotel, flush and warm. It is about as perfect a day as Jordan can remember.

Until they pass an electronics store and Jordan sees her face on a television screen.

She comes to a dead stop so suddenly, Lincoln actually continues forward a few feet before realizing she is no longer next to him. He walks back to retrieve her and he finally sees what she does, a still shot of a young model named Sarah Jordan whose life was sadly cut short after a tragic car accident.

Her husband is being interviewed.

"They never found the body of your wife's agnate, is that correct?" the reporter asks him.

"Yeah." Mark Jordan. That's his name. She knows his name now. He looks exhausted, like he aged too much in too short a time. "Yeah, that's right."

"Rumor has it that some of the clones have slipped under the radar rather than register for refugee status. Do you think that might be the case with her?"

"I-I don't – look." He rubs at his forehead, grimaces. "I have a son. He lost his mother and Merrick's insurance would have only gone so far. Maybe not even worked anyway. So, I can't really think about what happened to it, to-to the agnate. I have to concentrate on raising my son."

"I know this is difficult." The reporter pauses, then asks, "Still, everyone wonders, if you knew then what we know now, about how exactly these clones were raised, would you have still gone through with it? Still performed the surgery on your wife?"

It takes an agonizingly long time for Mark to answer. Jordan stares at the face of the man who, in another life, she would have married.

"I don't know. I like to think I wouldn't have."

She's shaking. She doesn't even know it until Lincoln has her in his arms and is guiding her away, telling her it doesn't matter, who cares what that guy thinks, come on, let's go home.

Even though they don't have a home. Even though it's not okay and never will be.

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The malaise stays with her, leaving stains of gray over everything in her life. The weather has trapped them in days of overcast sky and even Lincoln's relentless attempts to cheer her up fail to elicit more than weak smiles and insincere promises that she'll try to find the silver lining. She can't even appreciate the irony of _Lincoln_ being the optimist in their relationship.

They've pulled into one of the smaller ports in a city she didn't bother to learn the name of. Despite an early morning chill lingering, they eat outside, silent as they too often are nowadays. Jordan picks at her bacon, disinterested for the most part. Lincoln looks like he's about to say something when his mobile headset rings. He glances at the phone and curses.

"It's Tom's partner," he tells her. "I have to take this."

"Why? What is there to talk about?"

"Jordan, he was a jerk but he still had friends. And I've already dodged his calls for a week now."

"So? Let them call. You can't help them and they're never going to convince you otherwise."

"So, we just drop off the face of the earth? Is that what you're saying?"

"Maybe I am. Maybe that's what we _should_ do."

"And then what? People start looking for Tom Lincoln and they find out he was one of Merrick's clients? What happens to us after that?"

"I don't know!"

"Well, neither do I!" The phone keeps ringing as they argue. "I'm taking the damn call."

He grabs the phone and stomps into the saloon. She yells after him, "Fine!"

"Fine!" And then lower, but still within hearing range, Lincoln slipping into the brogue like a second skin. "Jaime! Sorry, been out and about all week. How've you been?"

Jordan pushes her plate away in disgust. She's tired of this. Tired of listening to Lincoln imitate a man who tried to kill him, tired of living a life that doesn't belong to them and that's she's not even sure she wants. Not that she knows what she wants, only that she never feels as if she's making any choices about it.

Uncertainty is killing her by inches.

She stays long enough to find her coat before jumping ship and stalking off the dock into town. She doesn't bother saying goodbye to Lincoln.

The town center is a mix of old, Victorian storefronts and modern touches. Small wine and spirit shops stand side-by-side with computer stores and the antique gas lamps along the street have been retrofitted with LED bulbs.

She pauses in front of a hair salon where a computerized display pops up in the window. A digital rendering of her face appears, but her hair style shifts through multiple iterations. 'Come in today!' a flashing sign tells her. 'Create a whole new you!'

She walks inside and waits only a few minutes before she's seated in front of a mirror, a girl with expertly-styled hair and blue nail-polish standing beside her.

"So, what can I do for you today?" the girl asks.

Jordan thinks for a moment, then shrugs. "Surprise me."

When it's done, Jordan can't stop staring at herself in the mirror. Her hair, once long and blonde, is now a golden copper barely reaching below her chin. The natural wave has become curls and the overall effect suggests a classic movie star with a punk aesthetic. She looks absolutely nothing like her donor.

"_Viva la difference_, huh?" the girl says.

"Yeah, it's – yeah." Jordan blinks several times, only to realize that she's tearing up, much to her embarrassment. "Oh. Oh, um."

She tries to surreptitiously wipe at her eyes, only to have the stylist hand her a box of tissues with nary a word. She rubs her face, blows her nose, and does a reasonable job at pulling herself together. "Sorry. I'm just having one of those days, I guess." Or one of those weeks or months or lives.

The girl shrugs. "No big. It's not exactly the reaction I was hoping for, but it's not the first time."

"No, no, it's not that."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Jordan smiles. It's small but genuine. "It's perfect."

Coming back on board the boat, she marvels at how much lighter her head feels, hands continually drifting up to play with her shorn locks. As she steps on deck, the pounding of Lincoln's feet announce his arrival.

"Where have you _been_? You left without a word and I thought-" His tirade stops short as he gets a good look. His mouth opens and closes a couple of times before he sputters out, "Your hair."

"Yeah." She runs her hands through it again, wondering when she is going to finally stop playing with it. "I thought, why not?"

"Okay. Um, okay, I guess."

"You don't like it."

"No! No, it's fine. Totally fine." His panic is almost endearing, she has to admit. "It's just really different, is all."

"Yeah," she says and smiles again. "It is."

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They crossover back into American waters with little fanfare beyond Lincoln telling her, "The GPS lady just told me we're in Alaska now."

The view of the coast is remarkable, so unlike the tropics and the California desert. It shares much of the same forested land as the northern Canadian provinces, but there is something different here, something wild and free and a little terrifying.

For the first day or two, their trip is not unlike the rest of their journey so far. Nights at port or anchored, days spent steering up the coast, making their way toward Anchorage.

The day they come to the mouth of the Cook Inlet starts much the same. Lincoln takes over solo piloting duties in the aft cabin and Jordan is on the deck, standing near the edge. She picked up a camera at their last port of call, determined to expand her talents out from 'reads voraciously' to 'reads voraciously and takes excellent photographs.' Most of her work so far has consisted of blurry shots of the ocean that no editing software can improve, but she's had one or two photos she's declared adequate enough.

She has the focus centered on the far horizon, trying to create a more artistic shot of a focused subject in the distance and blurry foreground, when something shoots a wide spray of water a couple dozen yards away. She lowers her camera, eyes wide as another spray of water appears, a dark shape hunched under the rippling surface off their portside.

And suddenly, it's not just a hint of something under the water but a magnificent, remarkable body rising up, hanging just above the surface for one glorious moment before crashing down and disappearing into the deep once more.

She doesn't move, just continues to gape until she hears a bang on the glass of the cockpit. Lincoln sticks his head out the window, blue eyes alight with joy.

"Did you see?" he says, almost bouncing in place. "A whale! We saw a whale!"

"A whale," she repeats, then adds, "Would you get back in there and steer?"

"Boat practically runs itself."

"No, it doesn't."

His grin never falters. "No, it doesn't," he agrees and disappears under the black glass.

She turns back out, feeling her own smile spread. She remembers the bug, the big bug Lincoln had once been so excited about finding because maybe that meant there was something beyond what their lives had thus far held.

And now they've seen a whale

She promises herself that she'll get a photo of the next one. Maybe it'll even be a picture that's more than adequate.

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She makes it out to another book store when they dock in Anchorage. Greeting her as she walks in the door is a familiar face staring at her from a cover. Well, two familiar faces, if you wanted to be technical about it.

_It Takes Two_, by Stanley Jones and Jones Three Echo. Number one on the New York Times Bestseller list three weeks in a row. 'Copies signed by the authors!' a sign tells her. '25% Off' says another.

She buys two copies.

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As Lincoln sleeps, she allows her fingers to dance along his naked back, taking in the tactile feel of him like he's one of her books.

Her hand lingers against the small, sunburst scar on his shoulder, an ugly knot of blemished flesh on an otherwise perfect body, Dr. Merrick's final gift to one of his disobedient children. So many of the people she had known back at the institute had been specimens of superior health. Even Merrick's employees tended to be strong and good-looking. Imperfect bodies, unhealthy habits, they existed but had been the exception.

And now she's traveled the world, walked its streets and followed its people, seen every shape and size of humanity available. Seen its imperfections writ large not in a contaminated planet fallen to contagion but on the skins of frail human beings trying to survive.

Sometimes she is still overwhelmed, frightened to realize that there are moments when she doesn't know who she is looking at in the mirror, doesn't know if the man who whispers to her in the dead of night is the best friend she grew up with or the moral monster who thought nothing of sacrificing another just to save his own skin. She will never be absolutely certain that it is Lincoln who loves her and not Tom, that it is her own nature to seek whatever knowledge she can and not a remnant of the woman who paid for her life.

So she stays awake to remind herself that there are things she has that are not merely pale reflections of another. Tom never had a scar on his back. Sarah never sailed to Alaska. She takes these small truths and hides them away, hoping that perhaps one day this will be enough to navigate the brave new world she was never meant to see.

Lincoln breathes in, stirring. She withdraws her hand as he turns over. He blinks at her, blue eyes drowsy but growing alert. "Hey."

"Hey," she says.

"You're up late."

"Couldn't sleep."

"Let's see if we can fix that." He holds his arms out. "Come here."

She falls into him and forgets everything else for a while.

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FIN


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